


you've become the target of this hand

by the_blonde_mermaid



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Ficlet, M/M, POV Second Person, Past Abuse, minor mention to ramsay bolton, minor mention to the night's watch, minor mention to throbb, missing moment, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-12
Updated: 2014-06-12
Packaged: 2018-02-04 09:49:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1774750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_blonde_mermaid/pseuds/the_blonde_mermaid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You are glad you've stopped muttering your own thoughts, cause he hates it when you still call Ramsay <em>Lord</em>, but you can't help it. As you can't help screaming his name during the night or latching to the void where once were your fingers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you've become the target of this hand

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know where this thing is coming from. It has literally no context, just a moment between these two. Read it as a ficlet, or as whatever you like. I may or may not continue with a series of missing moments, I sincerely don't know; but for now take everything as a stand alone piece.  
> It's just that I can't get these two out of my head.

You watch him washing his hands in the sink. You just stay here he just stays there and you know he hates it but it's your duty. You have to.  
There's a bruise on his left eye and a scratch on his cheek. Maybe it's blood, maybe it's dirt, maybe it's both.  
You want to go outside, take a deep breath, stuff your lungs with the ruthless and cruel wind that sometimes makes you forget you are still alive; but you can't, because you have to endure.

It's just the war, you keep saying to yourself, and it should be scary how this has become so simple to say but really, nothing scares you that much anymore.  
It's just the war, it's always the war. You can see it on his face; jaw clenched in a way that reminds you so much of **_him_** that it almost breaks your heart. Almost.  
You can see it in the way he walks, he mutters, he frowns; just like when you were all kids, smelling of cider and foolish dreams.  
But you are not kids anymore, there's just death behind your back, there's just death upon you.  
And you would laugh a good laugh if you still were able to, because you are so used to having someone upon you, that after Lord Ramsay you've chosen death herself to fill the space.

_She's most definitely the better option._

You are glad you've stopped muttering your own thoughts, cause he hates it when you still call Ramsay _Lord_ but you can't help it. As you can't help screaming his name during the night or latching to the void where once were your fingers.  
You want to chop off the leftovers, cut firm and sharp, watching them bleed because your hands without the blood are just hands and you are not used to it; not anymore. Even if you are dressed in black, and you have black leather gloves to cover them.  
But you can't do that, because you have to protect the Wall and you have to try hard, and harder, at handling again the sword.

He makes a low grunt and gets your attention even if he doesn't want to; you were lost again in your own mind - the only trap you still cannot escape. There's no one left in the room, not the gentle Maester who has always had a soft word for you from the day you arrived here and you can't decide if you hate him for what he does or love him for how he threats you; not the group of lads he always has by his side.  
It's just you, and him, and it's the first time you are this close in the daylight.  
Nights do not count; nights are different, but during the day you can't stay this close because he's the Lord Commander and you are just the turncloak, a ghost, a traitor, the dirt on the heel of the last runt of Castle Black; you have to stay away, especially from him.

You shift your weight from one feet to another, the pain almost unbearable; you fear the frostbites will take the other half of your nose while your badly healed bones quaver in agony. But you can't say a word, because you are still alive and even if in your mind it's more painful than death, there are a lot of people talking behind his back just because he spared your life, you have to feel grateful. You have to.  
He steps forward and you flinch abruptly. It's just him you keep saying to yourself, and the look on his eyes is sufficient to make you forget another face, that haunts your days and nights. At least just for a bit.

-I think we are losing this war - it's just a whisper but you catch it anyway.

There is no way they are going to win, there are too many attacks and the war is so tiring and the snow so comforting sometimes that you wish you could just disappear in the soft white and sleep a gentle sleep; cajoled by its cruel softness while you drift away from this world. But you can't, because you still have something to do.  
Now it's your time to step forward, but he doesn't move. He just stares at you with that stupid frown that another you - from another time, from another life - would have punched straight ahead. But it's now not then, and this is the only thing that doesn't make you shatter into a million pieces. The only thing that reminds you how it was before.  
So you just stare at him; and his eyes are grey - _not blue_ \- but you like them anyway; because you can read them more than you were ever able to do with his.  
You lay your hand in his hair; they are black - _not red_ \- but your fingers can disappear in the curls - and you can pretend you still have all five of them. It feels good, and it’s really just a color.

He grabs you by the waist and pulls you closer but you don't flinch this time.  
You just stay there, your hand in his hair, his fingers on your waist.  
And in some strange twisted way, it's enough.  
Because it's true, you can't run away because you have to stay, you can't forget Ramsay because you have to remember, you can't die because you have to live.  
But this thing, you and him, tugged into each other, fingers running on your back and your smell that's still on him from the night before; this thing is yours. The only thing that's left.  
So you stay here, so close your noses almost touch.  
And it's not because you have to, but because you _want_ to.


End file.
